


In the Fine Print

by SeverinadeStrango



Category: Sengoku Basara
Genre: Akechi Mitsuhide is His Own Warning, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Anal Sex, BDSM, Choking, Drooling, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied Gang Violence, Implied Organized Crime, M/M, Mentions of sex work, Restraining, Rough Sex, Severina's May 2019 Requests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 18:07:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19025179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeverinadeStrango/pseuds/SeverinadeStrango
Summary: Receiving a summons from Lord Nobunaga is cause for excitement indeed, as is everything that surely will follow.





	In the Fine Print

**Author's Note:**

  * For [judasetcetera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/judasetcetera/gifts).



> This was written as a request for @judasetcetera for the month of May 2019.

Mitsuhide knew he was probably about to be reprimanded – for going too far, for getting his hands dirty when he shouldn’t have, for meddling in matters beyond his pay, but he didn’t care about any of that. Nobunaga could have called him in so that he could berate him for hours on end and still he’d look forward to it with bated breath. It was an hour that he could spend in that room. It was everything. He knocked on the door quietly, and was surprised to find that it wasn’t even closed all the way – not the usual case when it came to Oda Nobunaga. Across the room, Mitsuhide could see the outline of Nobunaga’s figure, facing away from him, likely staring out of the spotless window at something or another. Mitsuhide knew better than to speak first.

He crossed the room with silent, soft footsteps, sinking to his knees just before the large desk before announcing his presence with a whispered, almost reverent “Nobunaga-kou,” waiting for a reply that he prayed would come.

Oh please. It could have been anything and he would welcome it, whether the words were harsh or soft, whether they were of praise or of curse. He didn’t care. This room was a sanctuary.

“Mitsuhide.” Nobunaga paced slowly around the desk, his shoes muffled by the lush carpet that covered the floor of his office. “You’ve been popular this week.” Mitsuhide dared to look up, finally – there was a book on the desk, opened to a point somewhere in the middle. Was that a good thing? He certainly hoped so – anything that earned him the approval that he so sought after, and his questions of how much Nobunaga knew about his self-assigned involvement in _other_ affairs vanished.

“I have tried my best, Nobunaga-kou.”

“That I can see.” His voice ground out into a low growl that stirred just a pang of worry (as well as something else) in the pit of Mitsuhide’s stomach. Was that not what he’d wanted? 

“I – “

“Over the desk.” It wasn’t a request, but a command – and yet one that Mitsuhide could decline if that was what he so wanted. They had a strange sort of understanding, and it had been that way ever since they’d first spoken to one another. This illusion of power and control was only ever that – but in the same way, it ran deeper than Nobunaga would ever know. Mitsuhide found that he preferred it that way. He obliged, inching forward and folding himself over the surface of Nobunaga’s desk, the wood hard against his bony elbows as Nobunaga came around behind him, placing a scalding palm directly at the small of his back. Mitsuhide nearly moaned from that alone.

_Oh please oh please oh please_

There was pressure and his shirt was shoved up roughly, the seams cutting into his skin and the heat doing anything but dissipating as Nobunaga’s hand passed over his bare back, along the lines of his spine, pausing at each welt and bruise that had been left by the week’s work. Some were from impacts – with the pole, with the walls, with various other pieces of furniture, and some had been left there by hands – grips and bruises and slaps and almost all of them were forgettable, but he knew what his clients liked. He’d act like it was the first time he’d _ever_ experienced such ecstasy even though often times, it couldn’t be further from the truth.

It wasn’t a complete lie, though, and he had plenty of enjoyable moments – but it was here that he _dreamed_ of being. Lying open and motionless, Nobunaga’s hands the only remaining thing anchoring him here to the world. How was it that he could carry such command, such unquestionable authority to tame Mitsuhide’s own desire to _know_ what it would be like if those limits were stretched? Oh, he could wonder – but right now he could hardly even think of resisting. Nobunaga’s fingers slid lower, slowly, as if counting each vertebrae one by one before he dispersed with all pretense and yanked off what sparse clothing Mitsuhide had worn. Mitsuhide could hear seams ripping and he was almost certain that he’d have to make some minor repairs later on if he _ever_ wanted to wear any of that again – but he could worry about that later. His shirt had been torn half open and shoved halfway up his back, and where the fabric stopped, he could feel the cool, smooth wood pressing against his skin, the hollows just beneath his ribs. 

_Every_ last detail wonderful.

“Their hands have been _everywhere_ on you.” Nobunaga almost sounded like he was spitting the words rather than speaking them. Hatred and loathing but not something that ran quite that deep – what was it? Nobunaga’s hand came down hard on the back of Mitsuhide’s throat before he could come to anything resembling a conclusion. Was he determined to crush Mitsuhide’s very spine in his hand? He pressed down, and Mitsuhide shivered with delight at the short stab of pain that resulted. Less than a second later he felt himself being flipped over onto his back and the beginnings of bruises on his shoulder blades, Nobunaga standing tall and imposing and _sublime_ above him. 

Mitsuhide whimpered.

“Yes,” he gasped, and then the hand came down again over his windpipe, pressing steadily until he was coughing, and then not even that was possible. He thrashed involuntarily, his body trying to save itself even though he wanted nothing more than to sit forever in this state of buzzing lightness. Yes yes yes please give it to me, he could hear a faint clicking noise, the buckle of his priceless belt, immaculate like everything else about him. Oh please. He’d dreamed about this a hundred a thousand million times, and if it stopped now he was going to die he could feel the head of Nobunaga’s cock pressing against his inner thigh, something slippery and oily across his skin, another hand coming up to join the first.

He was allowed one gasp of air that felt like a hammer to the skull, and then Nobunaga breached him with a growl that rattled Mitsuhide’s very bones. He flung his arms out as he rocked back from the force of it, grabbing onto the edges of the desk, anything to steady himself as above him, Nobunaga thrust into him at an unrelenting pace. It was like he intended to claim him, like it was some sort of race oh my lord my savior don’t you know I will always belong to you only you? Mitsuhide would have laughed if he could but the crossed thumbs over his throat were pressing down more and more with every second and there was no sign of mercy or relief, none whatsoever. He was grateful so grateful. He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

_Never forget,_ he thought he heard Nobunaga say, and he tried, with numb lips, to assure him that he would _always_ belong always oh always to him, there was nothing in this universe that could possibly change that but oh this was welcome in any case. Nails in his skin and the chafing of skin on skin, being wonderfully filled and then left aching only to have that itch scratched again, the need to be closer and closer still maybe he’ll never let me go. He was drooling, gasping for air that would not be granted to him not until he had properly served his lord and he was determined to do that, he was not deserving of it otherwise, not worthy and he would be oh he _would –_

Mitsuhide’s head lolled limply to the side as Nobunaga rutted into him like a man gone mad. His thighs ached, his legs trembled from the effort that it took to lock them tight, tighter around Nobunaga’s waist he wanted this never to end, this was where he belonged, being split wide open, that thick cock driving into him with enough force to split him in two oh it felt like it if only it was, he would happily die here. And yet Nobunaga, well versed in the art of denying those at his mercy what they wanted most, knew. He let go of Mitsuhide’s throat and reflexively he gasped, and it was that, the sudden shock that flowed through his veins that broke through his last resolves. He came with a scream that he could not hear, his head slamming into the desk as he arched violently and Nobunaga’s hands were in his hair hot breath an inch away from his ear oh god oh god Mitsuhide’s legs had gone limp, he raised his hands but they were shaking and he couldn’t move more than an inch at a time all while Nobunaga used him, thrust into him so violently he could almost feel his teeth rattle and then with a primal grunt, he spilled into him, leaving them both breathless and exhausted and drenched with sweat. Mitsuhide wanted to cry and scream and laugh all at the same time. He clung to the lapels of Nobunaga’s immaculately pressed (and now thoroughly stained) coat, hanging on so tightly that it hurt.

“Mitsuhide.”

No no no no don’t. Please don’t I want to want to stay here – 

“Mitsuhide, let go.” He released his grip seconds before he’d realized he’d done so. Nobunaga stood up, removing his jacket and swiftly folding it before straightening himself out as if none of _this_ had ever happened. Mitsuhide’s pounding heart sank a little, but then before he could leap to any sort of catastrophic conclusion (what if he wants to forget me what if I was not enough what if I what if) Nobunaga scooped him right off of the desk and placed him on his wobbly feet. His lips were moving, and yet Mitsuhide couldn’t hear a word he was saying. 

“…to what I said?” Mitsuhide blinked. 

“What you – “

“Can you stand, Mitsuhide?” Oh. Mitsuhide shifted his weight from one foot to the next, hyperaware of what his blood felt like as it raced through his veins and determining at last that no, he could not – not on his own, anyways. He shook his head accordingly. “Very well.” 

He was turned around, balanced against the desk as Nobunaga wrapped him in a light robe that he had not seen before – it was too expensive and far too finely made to be his own. It smelled like Nobunaga. He could have wept out of happiness. The questions felt distant – are you hurt? No, no he was not, not more than he had wanted to be, in any case. Are you bleeding? No, he didn’t think so. The fabric was moved, to the left here, just a small pull downwards – he was being checked for cuts, tears in his skin that he’d otherwise missed or simply couldn’t feel amongst everything else. It wasn’t a courtesy that would have been given to him, had he been something to be used and then discarded.

Mitsuhide turned, nearly falling over in the process, and lurched forwards against Nobunaga’s chest, desperate enough to have banished all decorum as he pressed his face against his chest, hiding his eyes away from the world. There was nothing outside of this, his need to be close and to remain forever so, and rather than pushing him away Nobunaga held him tightly in return, an arm around his waist and another across his back, warm and sturdy. You have done well, Mitsuhide. And maybe he had imagined it, but he could have sworn that Nobunaga had just drawn him in a little closer.


End file.
